Even the Butler Was Poor Read Online Free PDF

telephone on the third ring. "Hello."
    "Ben Spanner, please."
    "Speaking."
    "Ben, old buddy, this is Les Beaujack at Lenzer, Moon & Lombard. I've been thinking about you lately and . . . Say, I didn't wake you up, did I? My wife always tells me I have an awful habit of calling people at the crack of dawn."
    Ben sat up in bed, brushed at his hair with his free hand. "No, that's okay, Lea. I've been up since . . ." He squinted at the bedside clock, noting that it was 8:40. "Been up and around since eight."
    Beaujack, a vice president at the ad agency, did most of the hiring of voice talent for commercials. "You know, old buddy, I'm feeling damn stupid," he confessed. "Here we've been busting our collective ass trying to come up with the right man to play an English muffin on our new My Man Chumley radio spots—and I never even thought of you until late last night."
    "Bloody shame, old man," said Ben, drifting into his James Mason voice. "Because I can do seventeen different British voices, don't you know. I'm jolly well certain that if I come in to read for your people, you'll—"
    "Save the sales pitch, old buddy, since you won't have to audition at all," the advertising executive assured him. "You've got the job if you want it. I still, you know, remember that impressive job you did as the baby's bottom on the DynaDiaper commercial a couple years ago. Don't know why we haven't been using you more often. One reason, I suppose, is that you've been so damn busy of late. I'd better ask you right now if you're free tomorrow at two. We're, as usual, running about a week late on taping these things. Can you make it?"
    "Two tomorrow afternoon, huh?" He glanced up at the buff-colored ceiling high above him. "I'm flipping through my appointment book, Les. Nope, that's clear with me. I'll phone Elsie and have her talk to you about fees and contracts and such."
    "Elsie Macklin," said Beaujack without a trace of enthusiasm. "Very aggressive little agent. Sure, tell her to get in touch. Meantime, old buddy, I'll be Fed-Exing you copies of the scripts."
    "Okay, that'll be fine."
    "We'll be expecting you at the agency in Manhattan tomorrow at two. And, listen, if this session goes well—as I'm damn certain it will—there'll be a lot more work for you. See you." He hung up.
    Ben put down the phone and swung out of bed. "Fame and fortune continue to rain down on the personable, if a bit pudgy, Ben Spanner," he said aloud in his pompous anchorman voice. "He, according to latest reports, remains the same lovable chap he always was."
    Ben trotted down across the dew-stained half acre of green lawn that fronted his home. After checking inside his bright silvery mailbox, he crouched and began scanning the underbrush around the box pole. After a moment he spotted his morning copy of the Brimstone Pilot lying among some plants that might be weeds.
    Seating himself on the large decorative rock next to his drive, he began leafing through the newspaper. On page five he located the story— Murder at the Mali . After glancing back at his pink house, where H.J. was apparently still sound asleep, he began to read the account.
    Rick Dell was indeed dead and gone. He'd been beaten and tortured, but the apparent cause of death was several knife wounds in the chest. He'd parked his car on an upper level lot and come into the mall. The police had no suspects at the moment, nor a motive. They were, however, extremely anxious to locate and question a witness who they believed might be involved in some way. She was a young woman described as "a stunning red-haired beauty."
    Ben glanced toward his house again. "Stunning? Stunning?" he mused in his Sylvester the Cat voice. "Yes, I suppose you could say she is."
    "You'll get piles sitting on cold stone like that."
    "Good, since I've always wanted to have piles. But my parents claimed we were too poor to afford them." He stood up, grinned, then sat down again. "Morning, Joe."
    Joe Sankowitz was a